Spotlight: David S.

Man, I can't believe I'm writing this down. I've never told this in its entirety, just bits and pieces when I think it may benefit someone.

I've listened to you tell your story on Rogan and Layne's podcast and with Dr. Mike on AG. The least I can do is tell my story for anyone that can relate and possibly use it as motivation until whatever they're going through is a distant memory.

I started off as a super healthy, happy, and fit kid. Apparently, my sister and I would choose fruit over candy. I played soccer, baseball, basketball, and hockey. Then at around age 10, my mom got sick with breast cancer. ⁣

We moved closer to family since my Dad had to work really hard to make ends meet. My parents are both from litters of 6, so to help, aunts, uncles, grandma's grandpas were constantly bringing food for my sister and I. Cue coping mechanism. I began equating food with comfort. ⁣

It was a really tough battle for my mom, and it was even looking like she might not make it. Because cancer and its treatment is so ruthless on one's appearance. I actually remember thinking of her as the sick lady upstairs I was nervous to look at. Between this and my Dad's drinking, I slowly withdrew into myself as I learned the people who were once my everything can be taken away from you.

Thankfully she won her battle after an almost miraculous turnaround. I shit you not. She credits it to a detox tea that she drinks to this day. ⁣

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We've talked about it a lot, but that time period had a profound impact on me. Entering into grade school, I began gaining weight, sneaking food and my life revolved around food. I would even take money out of my Dad's wallet to buy junk food at school, even though my mom had made me a healthy lunch. Yep, I would eat two lunches. I went from this kid with a generally happy disposition to quiet, shy, and just angry.

Then I began to get bullied for my weight and struggled to make and keep friends into high school, which only exacerbated the issues. I found more and more comfort in food and solitary activities like video games. ⁣High school was a really shitty experience for me. Still, it formed the empathy and sense of humor that I cherish today, so I'm thankful for it in retrospect.

Finishing up senior year as I was getting my physical for college, the doctor told me straight up that I was borderline obese and headed down a long sick road of a life. I was 265 pounds with 30+% body fat at 16 years old. That Doc telling it to me straight changed my life. I left his office, looked at myself in the rearview mirror and said, "you're not doing this anymore."

This was 2006, and we were still on dial-up and printing out maps on Mapquest for directions, so still pretty early on in terms of fitness and diet information outside of magazines.

Enter what I have coined the 'yogurt gum and 5 miles a day diet.' I ran 5 miles per day until my shin splints were so bad from being heavy and years of not running, I could only walk, so I walked 6 miles to make up for it.

This was summer in Chicago, where it can be 90 degrees with 100% humidity. I remember I was dry heaving in the bushes one evening. My Dad was smoking a cigarette in the garage; he just gives me this bewildered look and asks "why are you doing this to yourself." Without skipping a beat, I replied, I don't want to marry a fat woman. Remember I was 16 years old, 265 pounds with fucked up teeth, and at zero risk of losing my virginity anytime soon. To this day, that's one of my Dad's favorite stories to tell.

I lost 80 pounds that summer before college.

But I fucked up.

I would learn a hard lesson that if you want to lose a lot of weight AND look good afterward, you better be lifting weights.

So here I am 80 pounds lighter, heading to college, and I was still mortified to take my shirt off. I think it was the rapid weight loss and being heavy throughout puberty that resulted in loose skin. But I wouldn't wish loose skin/man boobs on Hitler…Well maybe Hitler, but my point is men aren't supposed to have perky nips were suppose to have pecs. I thought about how my chest looked at least every hour for over two years.

It affected my self esteem, my posture, the colors and clothes I wore. I was constantly pulling my shirt away from my chest. I even bought expensive compression shirts that I would wear as under shirts to make them look more like a pec. All I really remember was how fucking hot I would get wearing them.

Thankfully over time the weights started to pay off, and I fell in love with the concept of being able to build and shape my body.

What I didn't expect is that you can look awesome on the outrside but completely fucked up on the inside. You can change your exterior, but if you're compensating for broken things inside of you, the reflection in the mirror isn't going to change that. The jackedAf dude at the gym can be depressed yall.

You have to do the work, seek therapy, talk out and identify your problems. You must break out of the feedback loops you're trapped in, and that's not necessarily going to be a 12-week program either. It could take years.

The universe can be a cruel summ' bitch.

At 20 years old, I was in a bad rear-end collision that blew out 3 discs in my back. Essentially stealing the one thing, the glue that held me together. Working out. The day after the accident, I could hardly walk. I had a final that day and somehow managed to get to class. I remember sweating as I was taking that final, I was in so much pain. I ended up putting C for most of the answers and went to the ER directly after.

At this time they were rolling out the pharmaceutical red carpet for people like me. Muscle relaxers, barbituates, and alcohol were my go to. I would have taken opiates, too, but they make me nauseous. -Found that out the hard way at 19 after jaw surgery to fix my aforementioned fucked up teeth. I was wired shut and almost choked to death on my own puke from the morphine, but that's another story entirely. My Dad had actually quit smoking for 6 years…until that night, It must've been tough to watch your son go through that. Solid excuse but still an excuse Pops.

So at this point I was living back with my parents and pretty lost, very depressed, unable to work out the way I used to, and partying HARD to escape. This went on for a few years.

Then one night after taking my mixture of choice, which was a Xanax bar and enough alcohol to send most people to the hospital. I decided it would be a good idea to drive home. Upon turning onto my street, I must not have wanted to wake up in my childhood bedroom with the flame wallpaper again. Some part of me wanted to end it. Sick of being in pain, sick of being depressed, not seeing a way out, I floored my car into a neighbor's tree.

Clearly, I was pretty fucked up because I should've chosen a much bigger tree. It was comical, imagine a hot wheels car running into a toothpick, and you'll basically see what the 3 squad cars saw as they pulled up.

Interestingly enough, I stomped the gas so hard, I rolled my ankle so bad the ortho would later say I would have been better off just breaking it.

But this meant the field sobriety test was out so I had to blow or get arrested. The airbag must've sobered me up somewhat because I remember past experiences to avoid blowing at all costs. They took me to the station for booking and I later blew .28.

That's more than 3x the legal limit, and this was about 90 minutes after the accident. The officer told me they've taken people passed out to the hospital with less than that, as I'm openly talking to them, being polite and even cracking jokes.

Like the Doctor doing me a solid. I got lucky again. The arresting officer took me aside and said something along the lines of. "Look you seem like a good kid, I don't know what happened. But based on where you said you were, you drove for 45 minutes with no issues, judging by the address on your license in the last 500 feet you crashed into a tree going way to fast for your own neighborhood. I mean you can see your house from where you crashed man (yep, that one still stings). With this amount of alcohol in your system and the way you're handling it, you could get pulled over, talk your way out of it, and then wipe out a family."

I pondered on that in the drunk tank for the rest of the night. A court-appointed alcohol and addiction counselor would later refer to my ability to handle large amounts of alcohol as a "hollow leg".

The next morning with a totaled car, a broken ankle and all the same depression and back pain as before. I took another long hard look in the mirror, vowing to never lose control again. That was going on 10 years ago as I'm about to celebrate my 32nd birthday.

I opted out of surgery for my back. After the chiro stole what little money the settlement awarded me (a whole other story), I had no resources. So I rehabbed my own back watching YouTube videos and reading Stu McGill's books.

Today I'm proud to say I'm able to lift heavy and sit for long periods without pain. Things I never thought I'd do again. I no longer feel trapped in my own body.

I don't really mess with alcohol anymore, I can have a drink here or there with friends and be perfectly fine, but I don't get drunk.

I just finished a 75-day challenge while following carbon diet coach and am currently in the best shape of my life.

I figure there's a reason for me still being here and that every day I wake up is bonus time. So now, I try to use what I've been through to help others.

My takeaways to others:

Don't let your situation get so bad that it requires a Doctor or, worse still, an Officer and Judge to intervene. The only better teacher than hitting rock bottom is learning from someone else's rock bottom.

The more I learn about diet and exercise, the more I realize it has more to do with psychology and our behavior surrounding food than the actual food itself. ⁣

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Understanding "the why "behind your diet and exercise choices must be confronted and worked through to make lasting change.

As my followers will attest, I've shared so many of your posts and am so very, very happy for Ethan. His story will help countless people, and I can't think of a better person to share mine.